The Confession
by ellia385
Summary: Short tale based on the real story about a girl held hostage in a cellar for eight years. See the 'Afterword' section for more info.


**The Confession.**

_Date is unknown_

Today is my --th birthday and I'm starting this diary hoping someone will find it some day and read my story. I'm not spoiled to think of myself as someone famous enough to have his diary or memoirs published just because of the great name. I just can't stand this loneliness and emptiness anymore. And want to share at least my memories of what and why happened with me to somebody – or something. This "fancy notebook" of course is stupid and pretentious but it, at least, exists and will survive my departure. So I hope –

So, about my story.

I was born on -- of -- in --. I'm -- years old now when I'm starting these notes.

Almost two years ago I was usual girl living with my mum and her husband (my step-father, that's it) in the -- suburb. At the day it happened I had kinda quarreled with mummy and went to school very angry at her being so anxious about me. Also I felt sad but hadn't known – why.

I took usual route to school and being so furious hadn't noticed this man near his van of whitish. He was not from our neighborhood and the van looked queerly strange.

I went by Him deep in my thoughts about mother and our arguing. And then it happened.

He asks me to stop. Added that I should stay still and calm. Then He pushed me inside the car and hissed that this is a kidnapping and He'll demand the money from my family to free me and they'll take me back in couple of days.

That had never happened.

In ten days He assured me that my parents have forgotten of me and are now in jail.

After taking me in the car He drives out the town but not too far from it. Brought me in some house of His and put in – err – somewhere. At that time I thought nothing of it. Just the place being dark, small and cold. Oh, and stinky and bad smelly!

-8-8-8-8-8-

_Date is unknown._

Jesus! He almost found my notes!! I should have hidden them in the air-hole! My head is spinning and He's beaten me for hours. Now it's hard to do anything but I know I should write this story on. Who knows what'll happen tomorrow and I want not to leave it unfinished –

So, back to the story.

He brought me to his house and to the cellar. Now I know it: small room specially conjured for me (or some other poor fellow I suppose). Well-hidden underneath his garage.

I have a bed; actually, it's not usual bed but kinda shelf hanging form the ceiling. There is also a basin and toilet, book-shelves and study desk. As well as television and radio. Yes, He allows me to watch TV and listen to the Radio but only for "educational purposes" as He puts it, so they are just cognitive programs and Educational Radio Station. But it's enough for me now.

He allows me to learn to knit and to do other stuff to keep me busy working (as, for instance, cleaning His house or alike) and not thinking of escape or something.

What is queer is that sometimes He talks to me about how I can escape His hostage –

But He also says He'll shoot Himself (oh, He has a gun!) or commit suicide in other way if I – if I run away from Him. I know it's sick but can't think of Him being dead or put in jail by the police if (and when) they found out the truth –

He could have been my father –

I would appreciate Him being more pushy and cruel. It is hard to accept His gifts (although, it was me who demanded all these celebrations and presents for Xmas and Birthdays).

The story again.

Firstly, of course, my room was not so "home-like" and lively. It was dark and grim cellar with only ventilator and toilet and clothes on the floor to sleep on. Than after a month or so He saw that I'm sick of it all. I couldn't eat that little food He'd given me and I failed to even stand upright for five minutes. I had fever and stomach problems, I was (as I remember looking in the mirror for the first time in that month) skinny, dirty and morbid-looking.

'I took you not to kill but to cultivate a Wife out of you, miserable baby!' He said looking indignantly at my despair. That was it. Wife. He wants me to be His play-doll of a woman.

Than I didn't understand what He was talking about: wife, baby, miserable and cultivate. What He wants? Who He is? What will be with me? I still don't know exactly –

-8-8-8-8-8-

_Date is unknown._

I haven't written here for almost a year. I'm weirdo, I know. But I've got used to this life.

Morning with Him: breakfast, long chat, strange looks in my direction, cleaning the house and my room, as well, sewing his cloth, washing dishes and, again, clothes, He's home after work, visit of His mother or neighbor or friend –

I'm ok now. I've got into the habit of thinking of Him. I've got into the way of worrying when He is extremely late from work –

I'm deceiving myself saying that if something will happen to Him I'll be stuck in this house forever and no one will learn about me –

No, I am anxious about Him and not about me being lost for others. I like Him.

He can be cruel and brutal, even violent. But He is also sympathetic, affectionate (in His own pervert-ish way) and careful about me and my needs. He brings me the books (even school ones) and nice food (but quite rarely it happens, unfortunately). He dresses me up (as if I am his play-doll, just talking and capricious sometimes) and His gifts of clothes are very exquisite and gorgeous!

A week ago He bought me a beautiful ring of silver and with the amethyst. He said it's matching to my eyes!

Returning back to the beginning of my living here,

He was strict and violent (mean: more than now) and had beaten me up till unconscious state of my mind. Once, after more than two weeks of beating and cruelty, He suddenly changed His mind.

'My poor little baby, Daddy didn't want to hurt you, please, don't die, sweetheart!!'

He was out of His mind!

And than **it** happened for the first time. He dragged me to His bedroom by my hair and threw me on the floor and kissed me and –

I still can't remember it well. And don't want to. The pain, disgust and despair are coming to me in the nightmares. My dreams are full of Him and His lust and brutality at that day (or was it the night?). I see His wide and cruel grin and red lights in His eyes and dimness in front of my gaze.

Later, He did this to me several times. Sometimes He was mean and violent again. In other times He was tender and loving and careful. And every time now and than I didn't (and don't) know how He will behave.

First times I cried and was too afraid of Him and His actions, was He cruel or kind. But than He brought me some books and allowed to watch some other than educational programs on the TV –

Now I'm thinking of Him being less mean then some of the men I've read or watched on the screen. He can be good husband and loving father if He wants and if I'm obedient of His wishes and orders –

-8-8-8-8-8-

_Date is unknown._

Today is my seventeenth birthday. He bought me a real wedding dress and lots of other gifts: toys, sweets, books –

As if I'm little girl.

That's stupid, because He knows everything about me. I'm reading books He never imagined young girl would read and I write poems He doesn't even understand. But still, He is bringing me "presents for His little baby"!!

One more time with His queer of the mind and body and He'll need to by stuff for the real baby!! Our baby!!

…

Oh, I said to Him about it and He only laughed at me. He thinks I'm still ten-year-old!! And always be!!

By the way, I want to finish the story of how I'd reached these circumstances.

Yes, "circumstances", you may call it. Well, after He'd beaten me up to my death (literary) and has had his own way round with me, He started to treat me better: more food (but still not enough to run away), warm clothes (for the house, not for the street), more comfortable room (the same one, but refurnished and renovated, and so on). I still was sick and tired, had little to do except for "being His housewife" and simply "wife" for this pervert of a man He was.

Than something's happened. He invited this lovely and nice woman, mother of His, she was. He said I was the daughter of His friend who went to Alaska or something. And demanded not to speak to His mother of my real self. When I've known His mother I, myself, didn't want to harm her and defame her son. She is really good person and not like her son, at all.

After her visit He was so pleased with my behavior that brought me something, don't now remember what, but it was nice. And He began to treat me even better.

For some time He invited His friend (tell them the same story of me) and we talked and played some games and stuff like this. He was still ready to beat me up or do other violence.

Now, looking back at that time I think about all these years (about six-seven something) as of strange but useful experience.

I spared myself many things, I did not start smoking or drinking and I did not hang out in bad company. I always had the thought: Surely I didn't come into the world so I could be locked up and my life completely ruined. I give up in despair about this unfairness. I always felt like a poor chicken in a hen house.

But, on the other hand, I HAD good times as well and I somehow am grateful for this experience, in spite of the violence of the circumstances –

-8-8-8-8-8-

_Date is unknown._

It's over. I'm out of the house of this criminal of a "husband and father" and out of reach of His pervert's hands and mind.

The only thing I pity is –

His death.

He promised to kill Himself when I'll be gone.

Now I'm looking at the photograph in my hand. It was taken in the Alps when He took me for skiing vacation once (that was the first and the last time for us being outside the house and even the town). We are standing on the mountain slope, He's hugging me around the shoulder, and He is smiling happily, as I do, to the camera. I'm sixteen on the photo and looking as if I'm having a holiday with my father or may-be boyfriend. We are both covered in snow and wearing our skiing suits and the ski are lying beneath our feet. It is snowing smoothly and peacefully, and we are enjoying the company of each other. This photo was found with His dead body in the simple envelope with my name on it. They gave it to me after checking the paper, the envelope and everything, as if He would do any REAL harm to me.

On the back of the picture, there are only two words in His neat and clear handwriting:

_**Sorry. Love.**_

88888888888888888888

**After-word.**

_This short tale is mostly based on the story of N. Kampusch, 18-year girl, who had been held hostage for eight years (being kidnapped at the age of ten), in the cellar of __Wolfgang Priklopil__, the Austrian communications technician. He committed suicide, after girl's escape, by stepping in front of a moving railroad train._ _He was buried in an undisclosed location and under a false name._

_Needles to say, that all the thoughts and implications of this tale are just imagination of the author of the tale, based on the true facts and events described in the media._

_Author._


End file.
